The headlines were explosive. “One in three Australian men admit to using intimate partner violence,” cried ABC. “Respect women. Stop the violence”, demanded CNN. The same refrain echoed across SBS, Women’s Agenda, and countless international outlets. The statistic was meant to shock—and it did. But behind the dramatic language and grave calls for action lies a deeply flawed piece of research, and an even more troubling pattern of gender bias and ideological reporting.
The study in question, published by the Australian Institute of Family Studies under its “Ten to Men” longitudinal health project, purportedly found that 35% of adult Australian men had engaged in some form of intimate partner violence. This represented a jump from 24% in 2013, suggesting a rapidly worsening national crisis. But as with all social science research, the devil is in the definitions.
According to the report, only 9% of men had admitted to physical violence, and 2% to sexual abuse, both serious and rightly condemned. The majority, however—an eyebrow-raising 32%—were said to have committed “emotional-type abuse.” But how was this defined? As it turns out, the researchers posed a question that simply asked whether the respondent had ever behaved in a way that made a partner feel “frightened or anxious.” That’s it. No context, no clarification.
Under this definition, a heated argument in a relationship—even one that happened years ago—could qualify as abuse. A poorly timed joke. A disagreement about parenting. Forgetting an anniversary. Any such moment, subjectively recalled by a partner, might have induced anxiety and now stands as statistical evidence of violence. The result is a number that vastly inflates the prevalence of abuse and warps public understanding of domestic violence.
The media, of course, eagerly ran with the more dramatic interpretation. Nowhere in their coverage was the term “anxiety” or “emotional-type abuse” explained. For the average reader, “intimate partner violence” conjures images of bruises, police reports, and shelters—not emotionally fraught disagreements or miscommunications. This bait-and-switch reporting style, where ordinary interpersonal tensions are rebranded as abuse, not only insults the intelligence of readers but diminishes the seriousness of real violence.
Dig deeper, and the ideological slant becomes harder to ignore. Of the nine researchers who authored the study—on male health—six were women. Imagine, for comparison, a majority-male panel conducting a study on postpartum depression or female sexual trauma. The outcry would be justified. So why the silence here?
The bias extends to the methodology. The researchers asked only men whether they had committed acts of abuse, but did not ask women the same questions. There is no comparable data on female-perpetrated violence, even though numerous studies (including those by the Australian Bureau of Statistics) show that domestic violence is not unidirectional. Men, too, are victims—often at equal or higher rates when it comes to emotional or psychological abuse. In fact, 25% of the male respondents reported both experiencing and using violence in relationships, suggesting a reciprocal dynamic, yet the media ignored this nuance entirely.
Even more concerning, the report does not disclose how many men reported experiencing violence themselves. This omission is both telling and disturbing. In a study supposedly dedicated to male health, why is there no comprehensive presentation of the data on male victimhood? The absence speaks volumes about the priorities of the researchers and the ideological lens through which the data was interpreted.
What’s left is not science, but a morality play: men as aggressors, women as victims, and statistics manipulated to support a preferred narrative. This not only undermines public trust in academic research, but it also further entrenches gender division in the national conversation about domestic violence.
It’s also worth considering the social consequences of this kind of narrative framing. If being in a relationship and once making your partner feel “anxious” counts as “violence,” then virtually every person in a long-term relationship is guilty. Such a standard erodes the distinction between genuine abuse and normal human conflict, making it harder—not easier—to identify those truly in need of help.
And perhaps most cynically of all, this research will likely inform public policy, school curriculums, and corporate training sessions. “One in three men is violent,” they will say, as the basis for gender-specific interventions, workshops, and funding. But what if the premise is false—or at least profoundly misleading?
The study’s failure to include women undermines its credibility as a tool for understanding domestic dynamics. Its failure to disclose male victimhood data reflects a selective, narrative-driven approach to public health. The media’s failure to challenge these shortcomings illustrates how ideologically compliant modern journalism has become.
Let’s be clear: intimate partner violence is real and damaging, and both men and women suffer as victims. But our response must be guided by integrity, not ideology. When advocacy replaces accuracy, everyone loses.
What Australia needs is a serious, gender-neutral approach to understanding and addressing domestic violence—one rooted in transparency, scientific rigour, and empathy for all victims, not just the politically convenient ones.
Until then, the headlines will continue to mislead, the studies will continue to exaggerate, and the public will grow ever more sceptical. Perhaps that’s the real crisis we should be worried about.
